


How Bossuet Found His Luck

by bobbiewickham



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:42:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3690954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly and Musichetta fight over a shipwar.  Bossuet tries to reconcile them, and does too well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Bossuet Found His Luck

Musichetta danced down the street. She pirouetted, and skipped, and twirled, until Joly began to fret. “You’ll fall, Musichetta-- _please_ be careful.” She laughed, loudly, hearing it ring out in the air, which was cold and biting and felt heavenly on her wine-hot cheeks. 

“Careful! My dearest, most darling Joly, how can I be careful? And how can you talk of caution, after watching _that_?” 

They had just been at the premiere of Hernani, and it was _marvelous._ The play, yes, but also the demonstrations, the cheering, the riotousness—Musichetta had slipped out with Joly, avoiding any rough encounters, but it had been such a thrill. 

Joly smiled a little, and adjusted his gloves. “Do you mean the play? Or the…spectacle?” 

“Both!” Musichetta waited for Joly to reach her—she had gone some way ahead in her enthusiasm—and slipped her arm through his. 

“Hmm,” said Joly. “Of course, I admire all this—from a political standpoint, you understand, and also for what it means for art—but the play itself? A pack of fools running around causing themselves, and each other, unnecessary pain?” 

Musichetta tensed. Joly obviously did not feel it, because he continued. “And really, the killing themselves at the end? Why on earth would they do that?” 

“It’s a question of honor,” Musichetta said. She sounded stiff and unnatural even to herself. “At least—for him, it’s honor. For her, it’s love and honor both. She won’t allow him to use his honor as a reason to abandon her to her fate. To a life alone, or with her lecherous uncle. That’s an empty, loveless, degrading life, and she wants no part of it.” 

“Idiots,” Joly said, shaking his head. “Why doesn’t he just break the stupid oath? And why should she kill herself over his stupidity?”

Musichetta pulled away from him. She turned to look him in the face, taking in the frown that grew as he realized something was wrong. “For some people,” she said, “ a life devoid of love or honor isn’t worth living.” She sounded overwrought, she knew, even for someone who had just seen Hernani, and she sought to bring herself under control. “Others may not feel the same way, of course.”

“Darling—”

Joly sounded weary and patient and practical and _calming_. Musichetta wanted to shake him. “Don’t you ‘darling’ me,” she said. 

It was chilly, and Musichetta was far from her apartment, but she raced away alone, ignoring Joly’s cry for her to come back. 

***

“So she ran away?” Women were an eternal mystery, to be sure. But even Bossuet, as big a dunce at solving that mystery as any man, knew that running away was generally a bad sign. 

Apparently, so did Joly. “Yes,” he said miserably, taking another swallow of his wine. “All because I said Hugo’s stupid play was stupid. Politically important, of course, but stupid. Dona Sol should have married that uncle of hers, and then murdered him quietly in his bed, and then married Hernani as a rich widow. What’s wrong with that, hmm?” 

Bossuet blinked. “Well, nothing, as such.” He speared an oyster on his fork, and chewed it, more to buy himself time before he had to speak again than anything else. “But—it lacks romance, don’t you think? A bit cold-blooded.”

Joly sniffed. “Practicality needn’t mean lack of feeling. Just look at Enjolras. Terrifyingly practical, that man.” He leaned back in his rickety, splintering chair, surveying the Corinthe with the triumphant air of a man who has just made a point.

Bossuet was forced to admit the justice of this to himself. Even so—he could see from Musichetta’s view, perhaps better than he truly would have liked. “The problem is, Jolllly—after all, sometimes one must choose between what’s practical and what one feels. Oh, sometimes one can find a way to have both, I don’t deny it—but you must admit that sometimes one can’t. Take you and me, for instance,” he said, lightly. 

Joly frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, every second you waste with a penniless law student with no prospects, and no real desire for prospects—or a seamstress who, though successful enough in her trade and with literary ambitions, will never be a bourgeoise—is time you are not spending with someone who might help you advance as a doctor. Someone who might introduce you to the circles of the wealthy patients and the wealthy wife M. and Mme Joly would no doubt like you to meet.”

“But that wouldn’t be practical at all,” Joly said, his frown growing more pronounced. “What’s practical depends on one’s aims. My aims are much better served by spending time with you and Musichetta. And, my dear fellow, you know better than anyone that it’s no waste. ”

“Well, er—” Bossuet began to hem and haw, feeling flattered and foolish at the same time.

“Or you _should_ know it, anyway. Why, if I were as theatrical as Musichetta, I’d storm out in a huff at that kind of insult.” Joly sniffed again, looking at Bossuet with as much outrage as he could muster—which wasn’t much, and made him look like a kitten splashed with water. He took an oyster from Bossuet’s plate, his face and posture implying the oyster was some sort of weregild he was exacting as retribution. 

“Peace, Joly,” Bossuet said, holding his hands up. “I surrender, and beg pardon, and offer you my oysters in humble penance—extremely humble, to be sure, and you’d be forgiven for thinking them an attempt at poisoning you rather than placating you, but please don’t. What you say is very true, but surely you can see how Musichetta may have misunderstood, and how this sort of misunderstanding might hit a sensitive spot. After all, she loves you. You can’t deny that.”

“No.” Joly looked sulky, as if he would like very much to deny it.

“She loves you, which means her heart will break if you do dutifully marry a wealthy wife someday, and yet—she can’t expect you to live in sin with her forever, can she?”

“Of course not, because no one lives forever,” said the excessively literal Joly. “She can expect me to be loyal to her till the end of my days or hers. Whichever comes first. I’ve told her that.”

“Yes, well,” Bossuet said, staring into his cup of wine. It was a murky purple, the sediments as unhelpful as tea leaves. “Many men say things like that. Many even mean it, at the time. But living it is a different matter, my dear Joly. Especially with no tie of marriage to bind you—”

“I’ve mentioned marriage,” Joly said. “Not just yet—I’d need a practice of my own first, and it would be too dull and restrictive for both of us right now—but someday. She just laughed at me.”

“Because she can’t know that you mean it, and I’m not sure she would want marriage anyway. A woman like Musichetta might prefer to be a mistress than a wife.” A wife, after all, was someone who served and took care of her man; a mistress was constantly served and courted by hers. Bossuet knew which one he would choose, though one never knew with women. “But even if she prefers it, it has one great negative, and that is the lack of security, my dear Joly. You could leave her at any moment—and you would have every material reason to. “

“I’m a revolutionary!” 

“You might be more discreet about it, unless you wish to start the revolution this very minute,” Bossuet said, looking about uneasily to see if any stranger had heard. Luckily, the place was nearly empty, and the only other patrons were fellows Bossuet knew.

Joly waved a hand, dismissing Bossuet’s caution as if it were a gnat. “What I mean is, what makes her think I care about _material reasons_? “ 

“Perhaps your insistence that Dona Sol should have behaved like a calculating mercenary? You yourself would never behave that way, but your view shows a certain—”

“Only so she could live in happiness and comfort with the man she truly loved!” Joly slumped over the table, pushing away his cup. “And what were you about to say? A certain what? Don’t tell me you think I’m a mercenary, too.”

Bossuet took a large gulp of wine, and reached out to cover Joly’s hand with his. “Never. It reveals a certain practical streak, that’s all, which Musichetta took in the wrong spirit, because she’s worried about that sort of thing.”

“But she has no cause for worry! How do I prove it to her, Bossuet? I’ll do anything to show her. Well, almost anything. I’m simply mad for her—”

“Yes, yes,” said Bossuet hurriedly. He had every sympathy for Joly’s feelings for Musichetta: how could he not, when he’d heard Joly hold forth on the subject so many times? But it wasn’t really necessary to hear it yet again. “Hmm, I’d say a dramatic gesture is in order.”

“I’m no good at those. I’m no Prouvaire.”

“That is, perhaps, to your advantage here. Well, perhaps I could speak to her? Tell her you’re pining away—prepare the ground a little—and then, once she’s in the right humor to accept an apology, you can go to her and grovel properly and take her out for an excellent meal? And then grovel some more, of course. Remember, Musichetta likes her food. She will find it hard to sulk while devouring a nice _crème anglaise._ ” 

Joly brightened immediately. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. A wholly unoriginal and unpoetic simile—Prouvaire would despair—but an accurate one nonetheless. “You’re the best and wisest man I know, eagle of Meaux.”

Bossuet drained his cup. “Save your thanks and praise till we’ve succeeded,” he advised. “Now, how about some more wine?”

***

”Can you believe him?” Musichetta looked from Hélène to Julie to Suzette in despair, waiting for them to tell her what she knew was true: that Joly was a soulless fool, devoid of any true feeling, and—and oh, merciful God, she loved him. How was she to bear this? She sagged, resting her head on her hand.

Hélène shrugged, putting a small pot of coffee on her pocked and battered dining table. “He’s right. Hernani is a significant play, but—rather foolish, don’t you think?”

Musichetta glared at her. Hélène knew very well her role here. She was supposed to side with Musichetta, not make excuses for Joly. “What’s foolish is looking to a play for logic,” she snapped back. “Either you appreciate the sentiment of a play, or you don’t—and either way, that tells something of your character—but expecting it to be logical just shows that you yourself are illogical.”

Suzette looked at her like she was trying not to laugh. “So what bothers you about Joly’s character, then? He doesn’t enjoy suicide scenes? A tragic shame. You might have a long-lived lover, which is tiresome, but you can always send him packing, you know. You needn’t wish for his death by poison—or whatever it was those idiots in the play used.”

Musichetta blinked hard. She was suddenly near tears. “Oh, hush,” she said, slumping further down in her chair. Julie, who was sprawled on the sofa with her legs hanging over its arm, pushed herself up on one elbow. 

“I know what you mean.” Julie was plainly hung over, with bloodshot eyes and a face that looked like death itself. Being understood by Julie, therefore, was not much consolation.

Still, it was better than nothing.

“You’re worried he’s cold,” Julie continued, blithely unaware of her own lack of credibility. “Cold and overly prudent. But, my dear—there are worse qualities, in a man. Joly’s friend, now, Lesgle—there’s someone who lacks any sort of prudence, and his coat reflects it. A very good sort of man, but not a good prospect.”

“You liked him well enough in your time,” Musichetta retorted. “Before you took up with that other one—”

Julie grinned. “You don’t have to defend Jean-Philippe Lesgle’s honor to me. Of course I liked him. I still do.”

“Then why use him as a bad example?” Julie had no business dismissing Bossuet like that. What was she, some nun? Talking of Bossuet like he was a very bad boy who was rightfully punished for his pride or sloth or disobedience—what nonsense!

“Because he is one, if you want a man who—well—keeps his head over his shoulders—”

“Well, I don’t. I’d much prefer one who doesn’t mind risking its removal, if it comes to that.” Musichetta gathered up her pelisse and bag and work-basket. She was tired of company. Julie rolled her eyes, while Suzette regarded Musichetta with amusement.

Hélène, for her part, looked impassive. But then Hélène never became very excited over men. True to form, she said, “If he doesn’t share your ideals, then simply send him on his way.” She sounded puzzled, as if she didn’t understand why this wasn’t the easy and obvious solution.

Musichetta almost wished she could follow Hélène’s example, but such chastity of the heart eluded her every bit as much as that of the body. She sighed, and hurried home.

***

”Musichetta!” Bossuet bounded up beside her at the door of her apartment. She was carrying a work-basket and shrouded in a pelisse. At the sound of his voice, she whirled to face him, with the air of a cat about to pounce. Bossuet took a step back.

”Oh, yes,” she said, “I expect he sent you to make excuses for him. Well, it will do him no good, or you either. ” She gestured him inside, though. Evidently she wanted to fight before sending him off. Bossuet had been relying on that. Musichetta liked a fight. This meant she would keep talking to him to tell him just how wrong he was: a perfectly acceptable scenario, for Bossuet’s purposes. She would keep talking to him, which meant he could keep talking to her. 

He entered, looking around at the deep rose-colored curtains and sofa-cover. It had been some time since he had been here. Musichetta’s taste in decorations was almost like a feminine version of Bahorel’s. A definite preference for reddish colors, though softer shades than his, and with rather more lace. 

Bossuet sat down on the sofa when Musichetta waved him there. “You know how Joly is,” he began. “You know he loves you. You can’t imagine how upset he’s been since you two fought—”

“Let me guess,” Musichetta said, perching at the other end of the sofa and twirling a ringlet round her finger. “He’s so upset, he’s spent his days in your company, drinking a great deal and eating dubious food. Which is exactly what he’d do if he were ecstatically happy, isn’t it? It’s hardly proof of sorrow.”

“What, then? Do you want him to waste away like a hero in a bad novel?”

Musichetta scowled, likely because she couldn’t very well say ‘yes.’ Bossuet took that as a chance. “See here, my dear girl, just because he doesn’t like that silly play doesn’t mean he loves you any less. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you beyond the reach of prudence and caution and respectability. He most assuredly does. I can tell you he does. He talks of almost nothing else. It’s you, and his science, and politics. That’s it. Well, sometimes his tailoring, but that’s mostly it. He doesn’t appreciate stupid melodramas with too many dead bodies, that’s all.”

“Life is a melodrama with too many dead bodies,” Musichetta said, or rather, sniffed.

“Now you sound like my friend Grantaire,” said Bossuet. “That is not a compliment, much as I love him. You want to check that tendency to cynicism.”

“It’s not cynicism. I don’t object to melodrama. I merely wonder at Joly’s inability to realize he’s in a melodrama. He wants to pretend he’s in a…well, I don’t know. Maybe a science experiment. Some controlled scenario with no passion and no death, anyway.”

Bossuet slid closer to her on the sofa, and put his hand on her shoulder. “If you think science experiments involve no passion, well, you haven’t been listening to Joly talk about them all these years. For which I don’t blame you. I haven’t been truly listening either, I freely admit. I simply nod and smile. But even so, I can tell he feels strongly about them, and he has no control over them, and they will likely end by causing someone’s death.” He frowned, and added, “Probably mine.” 

Musichetta snorted. “You’ve survived this long. I’m not worried about you.”

“Of course you’re not. Cruel, heartless woman. No wonder you’re tormenting poor Joly. You must realize, my dear, he’s not like you. He doesn’t like fighting. He likes peace and smiles and good cheer.”

“So do I. I don’t like fighting either.”

Bossuet guffawed. “Oh, yes,” he croaked out between howls of laughter. “You’re a quiet, harmless sort, that’s for certain. That’s why you dumped water over my head and refused to talk to me for a week that one time, hmm?”

Musichetta began to laugh despite herself. “You were no lamb. You threw a pillow at me and said I was acting like your Blondeau.”

“You _were_ —“

“I most certainly wasn’t!” She hit his arm, then slumped against him companionably. “At least you fight back, and you enjoy it. Joly hates it, poor thing--” She checked herself and stopped, clearly remembering that Joly was no poor thing, just a despicable Hernani-hating villain.

Women. Bossuet suppressed a sigh, and draped an arm around her. This was progress—her warm feelings to Joly were resurfacing despite her efforts. “Yes, I enjoy it. Some of it, and only to a point, of course. I’m no Bahorel—you haven’t met him, have you? Now there’s a man who likes a fight. I like some bickering, no more. But I don’t have Joly’s sweetness. I never did. He’s a rare man, Joly. I’ve never met any like him.” 

Musichetta rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know you think he’s wonderful, you needn’t—”

“So do you. Don’t deny it.” Bossuet leaned closer to her, looking her directly in the eye. “Why put yourself in such pain, hmm? This isn’t making you happy, this breach. It’s making Joly miserable, and he’s my dearest friend in the world, I will likely never love anyone as much. It’s making you miserable too, and I’m quite fond of you as well, you know, as infuriating as you are—” Somehow he’d gotten very close indeed. The curls of her hair tickled his cheek. Her eyelashes were dark against her olive skin. He could feel the heat of her breath; he could hear it fade into silence when she caught and held it. 

Musichetta’s fingers curled around his wrist. Bossuet felt himself move to her like a wave to the shore—

Their lips met, and Bossuet sprang back, electrified. The sudden shock of shame was too much. For one strange moment, he was rendered speechless; then he fell back upon excessive speech. “Well, then, I think when Joly comes round apologizing again, you might consider taking a more forgiving stance. You’ll enjoy it more than sulking, I promise—in fact you can even combine it with sulking. You can sulk, and then relent, bit by bit—isn’t that what women like to do? Yield ever so slowly, and demanding dear concessions for every meager bit of ground given? You can do that with Joly and he’ll thank you for it.”

What a contemptible excuse for a friend he was. He had to leave, and now. “Er, yes, well, he’ll be around soon, I’m sure.”

“Um,” said Musichetta intelligently. Then she rallied. “Bossuet, don’t be a fool—don’t run like a scared rabbit, come back here—”

Bossuet, halfway out the door, elected to keep going, scared rabbit comparisons or no.

***

Bossuet knew he had to confess. It would hurt Joly, but he had to—he couldn’t lie to Joly, not by omission. This was not a principled stance. Bossuet suspected he had no ability to lie to Joly. There were no secrets between them. It would come spilling out sooner or later. The later it was, the greater the harm. 

He was meeting Joly for dinner in the Corinthe. That left him two hours to find Grantaire, have a few drinks, and nerve himself up for the ordeal. Bossuet tried his best to summon the requisite iron will; unfortunately, any iron in his soul had gone rusty ages ago. At least Grantaire was in a happy mood, possibly because he expected to spend the evening with a lady.

But the two hours wore on inexorably; through it all, Bossuet remained dismally conscious he had to face Joly.

He’d never worried about facing Joly before. He’d never even thought of it as “facing” Joly. It was as if Joly were a law professor or a battle or some terrifying thing, rather than someone who made all hardships bearable.

”What did she say?” Joly demanded, as soon as Bossuet slid onto the rough bench beside him in a dusty, secluded nook of the Corinthe. 

“I think she’s amenable,” Bossuet said. Joly’s smile was radiant, and Bossuet cursed himself yet again.

Well. It was done, and there was no hope for it. Bossuet took a breath. “I have a confession.”

“Did you promise her I’d recant on Hernani? That’s no trouble. I will, if she wishes it—I will not say I like the play, that would be a lie, but I can concede that perhaps it has merits I cannot appreciate—”

“No, I promised nothing—except perhaps some persistent begging, which you knew you were in for anyway. This is something else entirely. I—”

“You really are an absolute marvel.” Joly cut Bossuet off, taking his hand. “I’m eternally grateful, Bossuet. I was already in your debt for—oh, for so many things, but this is the greatest of them all.” He pulled Bossuet into a slightly clumsy embrace, and didn’t fully let go, resting his head on Bossuet’s shoulder. “I’m the most enviable man in this world, I know. I have the best mistress, the best friend—not the best wine,” he said, taking another sip of the Corinthe’s questionable offering, “but that’s a minor fault.”

“The thing is, Joly,” Bossuet pressed on, resolute. He felt like Saint-Just steadily approaching the guillotine. Nevertheless, he tightened his arm around Joly, just a little, comforted by the closeness even though he knew he was about to spoil it all. “Musichetta and I—while I was convincing her, she—I—it was all my fault, mine entirely, and I—er—” His tongue deserted him when he needed it most, and he floundered.

Joly tilted his head up, raising an eyebrow. “Was she—were you—did you get flirtatious with each other? My dear fellow, that’s nothing at all. You’re dearer than a brother to me, you know that, and I’m not the jealous sort—”

“No, it wasn’t just—”

“I can’t blame her, either. Of course she’d see your charms.” Joly smiled. “And you think that merits a confession? Bossuet, you’re getting morbidly conscientious. You will become like Marius Pontmercy. You require more wine.”

Joly half-rose. He leaned over Bossuet, reaching for the wine on the table’s other side. He was, however, a bit too tipsy to manage leaning and reaching very gracefully, and he stumbled into Bossuet’s lap.

“Take care!” Bossuet steadied Joly with a hand at his waist, keeping him from slipping to the floor. 

“Mmmm,” said Joly, now sprawled over Bossuet’s lap. “See—you even save me from my own drunken folly.” His head drooped forward.

Bossuet felt like a fraud. “No, Joly—you don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” Joly said, and Bossuet gave up, tugging Joly closer. Joly made a soft noise deep in the back of his throat; he let his head droop further still, but turned his face at the last moment. His movements were slow and lazy; Bossuet could have pulled back in time.

He didn’t. He let Joly’s lips meet his instead. Bossuet kept his eyes open, which should have been awkward, but it wasn’t in the least. For one second he saw nothing but Joly’s fair hair and flushed skin, and for that one second the knots within him seemed to loosen. His hands found Joly’s, somehow, and their fingers tangled. They’d never kissed like this before. They often had very little space between them, but not like this, not with—intent.

Bossuet pulled back. Joly was looking at him with bleary eyes and a vague, confused sort of smile, and the shame came flooding back.

He’d somehow managed to make things even worse. Not content with betraying Joly with Musichetta, he had now betrayed Musichetta with Joly. And likely taken advantage of Joly in the process: Joly, wrapped up in his feelings and drunk to boot, certainly had no clear idea what was happening. Joly couldn’t have understood the nature of Bossuet’s motives, or else—he would have stopped it. He surely would have stopped it. He didn’t because he wasn’t in his right mind. 

Bossuet had exploited that. Gotten carried away, presumed too much. “Oh, damn,” he said aloud. Joly’s brow wrinkled, adorably. “I’m sorry—really—oh, _damn._ ” Bossuet got up quickly, stumbling over his own feet, and fled the Corinthe with ignominious haste.

***

After the silly debacle with Bossuet, Musichetta had an hour to fling herself on the couch with a blanket over her head and curse the idiocy of men, the world, and herself.

At the end of an hour, she got up and washed her face and made herself ready to meet Magnon. Magnon was one of Musichetta’s best customers, providing a regular supply of orders for elegant garments; she was also a rogue. Musichetta didn’t know exactly what sort of criminality Magnon engaged in. Nevertheless, she kept a sharp eye on Magnon during her visits to Musichetta’s apartment. Magnon likely wouldn’t stoop to petty theft, especially not from her favorite seamstress. Still, she bore watching.

Magnon breezed in with a flutter of silks, her curls arcing gracefully round her face. She was always perfectly soignée. Musichetta could never see her without a touch of envy.

They chattered as Musichetta noted down specifications, and confirmed Magnon’s measurements. Musichetta thought she was putting on a sufficient performance of lively interest, only to be rudely surprised when Magnon asked, “My dear, what on earth is wrong?”

”Nothing,” Musichetta said without thinking. Magnon looked at her with raised eyebrows and a twitching mouth, and Musichetta sighed. “Oh—love problems. You know how it is.”

Magnon shrugged. “I don’t,” she said. “My lover gives me very few problems. Truly, he helps me rid myself of them. But then, I selected him carefully for that purpose. I think most women make their selection with other qualities in mind. Men too, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” said Musichetta noncommittally. Magnon seemed to share the approach Joly advocated for Dona Sol. Musichetta had no trouble imagining Magnon being devastatingly practical about men. “But what if you love a man who gives you problems? Or—more than one man who does?” Did she love Bossuet, or just like him immensely? Musichetta wasn’t sure, but she wanted to find out.

“You must decide what’s a problem and what isn’t,” Magnon said, with a sage air. “If you want him, well, are the soi-disant problems truly problems for you? One woman’s problem is another’s solution. Men, children, clothes—it’s all the same. A silk won’t pair well with my complexion because it does with yours.”

She did want Joly. That _was_ the problem. She wanted him too much. It was much safer to want less.

Magnon was looking at her with evident amusement. “You over-complicate things, I think,” she said. “Take what you want, and try not to pay for it. But if you do pay—you’ll have got what you wanted, at least for a while.”

Musichetta reflected on this for a moment, before remembering Magnon was likely not the best source of advice. But then, who did she know who was?

***

Bossuet nearly ran from the Corinthe to the Musain. Hopefully, Courfeyrac would be there. He needed Courfeyrac. This situation called for Courfeyrac, there was no question about it—normally he’d ask Joly, but, well. And Bahorel was more likely to guffaw than to help. No, it was Courfeyrac he required, and he prayed it was Courfeyrac he would find when he dashed up the stairs and flung open the door to the backroom—

His luck held. Bossuet saw only Enjolras, sitting quietly at a table, and Jean Prouvaire, standing atop it.

Bossuet came over to them with a dragging, defeated step, and wilted into a chair. “Good evening,” he mumbled.

Enjolras raised a quizzical eyebrow. “What’s wrong, my friend?”

After the first shock of disappointment, Bossuet’s humor revived, and inspired him to speak the truth—with some omissions. Joly and especially Musichetta deserved their privacy, after all. “Have you ever betrayed a friend? That’s a stupid question, and I apologize for asking it—of course you haven’t. But if you did—and it can’t be undone—how would you even begin to atone for it?”

Enjolras frowned. “I suppose you must ask the friend that. Be guided by his wishes.”

Jean Prouvaire, who was smiling dreamily down at him from on top of the table, spoke up at this juncture. “From Bossuet’s face, I would guess the friend is a lady. In which case, you must show her your true feelings, Bossuet—do not hold back, or hide behind a cold and shallow wit, but be as forthright and passionate and tender as you can—”

Bossuet, imagining Musichetta—or, even better, Joly—the recipient of a Prouvairesque serenade or sonnet, could not repress a snort. “That would be very suitable for your friends, Prouvaire—but somehow I think mine will not properly appreciate it.” Except as a joke, Bossuet did not say aloud.

Enjolras’s brow wrinkled further. “I cannot see any solution to equal simply asking. That must surely end any dilemma, and swiftly. Unless your friend is dishonest with you.” Enjolras’s tone made it plain he sincerely couldn’t conceive of why matters should be more complicated than this. It was endearing, in a way.

Bossuet groaned. Enjolras put a hand on his shoulder and continued to look perplexed and slightly impatient; Prouvaire, still on top of the table, began to discourse on the nature of love. Bossuet allowed his face to sink into his hands for one brief moment of despairing surrender to his bad luck; then he rose. “Thank you both,” he said, “you’ve been a true comfort.” Which was accurate, if one remembered that amusement was the best comfort of all.

***

It was late in the evening, several hours after Magnon and two other customers had come and gone, when Joly knocked on Musichetta’s door.

Musichetta could see him on the landing through her peephole. She stood there for several moments, enjoying the worried look on his face, before opening the door. “Well?” She demanded, pointedly not stepping back to allow him in. It wouldn’t do to make him complacent.

“I’m sorry,” Joly said, before anything else. He’d probably practiced before arriving. “I—look, I cannot in honesty say I like the damn play, but you must know I don’t think love should come second to material interest. I will do almost anything you like to prove it. Please, just tell me what you want—”

Musichetta noted the “almost.” She considered picking a fight over it, but she knew Joly would simply babble about how he couldn’t truly promise to do _anything_ , because what if she asked him to commit murder, etc. 

“Very well,” she interrupted, halfway through a meandering plea for forgiveness, “we can go out to dinner, and talk some more. Before we do, though…” Musichetta hesitated, unwilling to surrender any of the moral high ground. But she couldn’t in good conscience keep this from him. “Have you spoken to Bossuet? Today, I mean.”

Joly grinned. “Oh, yes, poor fellow. He’s feeling terribly guilty because the two of you had some sort of—tender moment? He wasn’t very clear about what happened—”

Musichetta tensed, and squared her shoulders. “We kissed,” she said. “I—I won’t say it was nothing. But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you—or that he doesn’t.”

She watched him anxiously, but all he did was wave a hand. “I know that,” he said. It was like a spigot turned within her, releasing a sudden onrush of love. In spite of all her resolve to remain cool and distant, she crossed the space between them, and took his hands in hers.

Joly cleared his throat. “In the interests of honesty—while he was confessing, he, er. Well. We kissed. Not in a brotherly way, I mean. It was, um, well—but it doesn’t lessen what I feel for you at all, my dear. Since I can believe that of you, I hope you can believe it in turn—”

Musichetta began to laugh. She tried to stop, and say something sensible, but she couldn’t. She collapsed onto her sofa and clutched a pillow to her chest. “What a devil Bossuet is,” she managed to choke out. “Did he run away from you, too?”

Joly, giggling himself, sat down beside her. “Yes! He apologized and fled, the idiot.”

”He makes a very poor Don Juan,” Musichetta said, still laughing. “Much too scrupulous, and therefore much too awkward. Poor thing! We’ll have to find him and tell him we’re not angry at him. He’s done nothing wrong.” The priests called it a sin, of course. Perhaps it was unnatural, and not what God intended—but surely it did no harm. And for Joly and Bossuet it seemed as natural as breathing, so who knew what God did intend? The priests called Musichetta’s own love for Joly a sin, after all. “Though,” she added, “if either of us plan to do it again—well, I wouldn’t be jealous, and it seems you wouldn’t either, but…we’ll have to be discreet. Perhaps you especially.” The other grisettes would call her loose for having two lovers, once they suspected, but she could endure that. There were other girls who did. A man accused of taking the woman’s part, though…that could be different. It was a great risk. A most imprudent one.

“It’s an odd thing,” she said, “that I’m not jealous. I’d scratch your face to shreds if you looked at another woman, you know.” 

“I know,” Joly said fondly. 

“Or even if you looked at a man other than Bossuet. But with him, it’s…suitable. Somehow. I don’t know,” she said, putting her head in her hands. She suddenly felt very indelicate, which was a ridiculous way to feel with a man who had seen her naked. Joly’s arm snaked around her shoulders, slowly, as if he still felt uncertain of his welcome. 

”I admit,” he said, “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. About doing it again. Or not.” He paused for a long moment, and gave an embarrassed laugh. “I suppose we could share him, at that.” 

Musichetta giggled. “Like we shared Hippocrates, you mean?” She referred to the cat they had taken care of between them, before Hippocrates tired of the domestic life and ran away. 

“Come now, you cannot compare Bossuet to a beast,” Joly said, with an offended air.

“Of course I can. Hippocrates was a darling.” She laughed again, from nerves as well as amusement. “If we do try to tell Bossuet all this…oh, I can’t wait to see his face. He’s walking about thinking he’s mortally insulted us both. What will he say when he learns he’s seduced us instead?”

Joly held her closer. “I don’t know. But I’m willing to brave the inquiry, if you are.”

***

Bossuet gritted his teeth when he reached Joly’s doorway. His own doorway, at least for now. Hopefully Joly would not hold the indiscretion too much against him. Joly hadn’t seemed repulsed, or outraged, after all. The man was too kindly for his own good. Perhaps Bossuet could benefit from that yet again.

He took a deep breath and opened the door. Joly and Musichetta were both there. Bossuet felt sick—but both were smiling. “Sit down, my dear fellow,” Joly said. 

Bossuet shrugged off his coat. The effort of not talking about it was already too much; he blurted out, “About the awkwardness earlier—with both of you—I don’t know what got into me, but please, let me know how I can assure you…” Oh, hell, was he following _Enjolras’s_ advice? Every time he thought he couldn’t get more blockheaded...

“Assure us of what?” Musichetta interrupted. She rose, and tugged him over to a chair by Joly’s side. “Maybe you should find out what, exactly, we wish to be assured of.”

Bossuet opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of what to say. “Very well, then,” he said finally. “What is it?”

Joly slung an arm over his shoulder. “First of all, that you will hear us out before running away. And second of all…we’ve talked, and we both enjoyed the awkwardness earlier. Very much. And, well, we’d like…more awkwardness.” Joly was speaking calmly and evenly. Still, he couldn’t control his blushes, and his face was red. Bossuet found this irresistibly attractive, which he supposed proved something about love.

“Oh,” said Bossuet, after a long and leaden pause. He took one of Joly’s hands and one of Musichetta’s. “I can promise you that,” he said. “Elegance and luxury are out of my grasp, I fear, but awkwardness—yes. All I have of that is yours.” He tried for lightness, but his voice was rough. 

Musichetta smiled. “Then there’s nothing else I need assurance of.”

Joly let his head drop onto Bossuet’s shoulder. Bossuet, after contemplating making an ironical speech, decided his voice would not hold steady, and kept his mouth shut; there would be myriad opportunities for witticisms in the future, he was sure.


End file.
